


Static

by AidanChase



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amnesia Recovery, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 06:30:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2641586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AidanChase/pseuds/AidanChase
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sense of self isn't something he has had in a long time. He knows who Bucky is, but The Winter Soldier isn't that person. He's not even The Winter Soldier now. He's nothing and he can't put himself back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Static

It's like when you've driven too far away from the radio station, and everything's turning to static. Maybe you think you hear your favorite song come on, but you're not quite sure, because it's all fuzzy. That's what recovering is like. It's not sudden, and reception is always a little spotty. But you get glimpses, and sometimes you get close enough to the station to hear a few bars of a familiar song. And, if you're lucky, you can remember the words as they play. But most of the time it's like hearing a familiar tune in a language you don't understand.

The first time it happened was on the bridge. Something broke through the static. Something blue, something warm--something ached, and there was an explosion.

(It was cold, and the song faded, but it still hummed in the static like a foreign note of consistency wrapped in complete chaos.)

There was an explosion. Two. Fire and a collapsing hellicarrier. Fire and a collapsing building. A handful of words pushed through the static. It wasn't just the words it was the tone--there was a flood, not of understanding, but of feeling. Empathy, heartbreak, and a lot of frustration. Not anger or rage, but frustration. Like the stubbornness in his voice was irritating, and had been so irritating for so long. And so, so much heartbreak.

The radio signal got clear more frequently after that. Like the radio occasionally breached the perimeter of the broadcasting station. But it never really came through clearly.

The fall of SHIELD meant televisions ran a lot more historical pieces on SHIELD, Hydra, Captain America, and the Howling Commandos. A lot of information came in through the static during this time. The Smithsonian exhibit helped a little. The program special, "Heroes of World War II" helped a lot, even though it was mostly about Captain America. Some of it was like when a friend told a story you had forgotten until they said the right three words. Most of it was like learning for the first time.

In a few weeks, television networks had exhausted their audiences and the usual programs returned. The radio station went silent. Nothing tried to break through the static. The best thing to do was try to put together what pieces were already there.

There was a bar in northern Maine. It was cold and no one there had passed 8th grade history. Until a grizzly-looking guy squinted over his whiskey glass and growled out, "You look an awful lot like that kid."

"Not sure who you're talking about," mumbled, hat low, eyes on the bottle.

"Hm," like a bear growling, deep and low, "A guy I used to know. But I guess he's been dead for a while."

It was like the radio tuned onto a new frequency. It was like screaming. 

"Identity compromised. Kill him. He knows, now kill him." 

(Through the static came a familiar song of remorse and comfort. Remorse about what needed to be done, and comfort that it would be forgotten soon. But there was no more forgetting. Never again.)

And so the remorse, stronger than it had ever been before, won out and nothing happened after all.

After the bar in Maine there was a trip back to the Smithsonian. Because there was no where else to go. No where else except to stare in the face of Bucky Barnes and wonder if he would ever come back. If anyone wanted him to.

The exhibit was mostly empty in the middle of a Monday. One school tour of eighth graders. One young family on a DC vacation. Two young women giggling as they read the statistics on Captain America's height and weight.

The bench in the center was empty. And Bucky Barnes looked exactly the same, and the words of heroism were exactly the same, but they were no more familiar than the last time.

Someone sat down on the right. The man had slightly disguised himself--glasses, ball cap. He felt heavy, in a strange way. His emotional weight translated itself physically. It was strangely vulnerable. 

"I was ready to give up," he said. "I was ready to call it quits when we got back from Russia, but Sam said, 'one more time. Let's try one more time in New York. It's a big place, lots of folks coming and going,' he said. Like I didn't know. And I thought I'd come here first. One more time for good luck. And it was the luckiest thing in the world."

"Not really sure what you're talking about." It was mumbled, hat pulled low, eyes on the floor, shoulders hunched.

"The thing is... You were never a Red Sox fan."

The man reached for the ball cap. Instinct took over. A gloved hand grabbed his wrist. Metal ground against metal as fingers squeezed hard enough to break bones--hard enough to break normal bones.

"Bucky--"

"Bucky died."

"You're right here."

The next sentence was hard. The words were slow to come, difficult to find. Words that existed in concept but not in understanding or clarity. "Not him. Me--I--I am not him. And I never will be."

And his response came even slower. After the metal fingers let go--after "I" let go. After he rubbed his wrist. And then he ducked his head with a small smile that was so familiar an entire chorus of memory made it through the static. 

"You'll always be you, Buck. And I never want you to be anything more. It's not about what you remember or don't, it's just you."

"What... What defines 'me' then, that you're so sure is still there?" 

Because there's nothing left. How could he not understand, after everything, there was nothing left. 'Me' means something different now and 'I' could not be what he thought.

There was no hesitation this time. "Bucky was brave. He fought when the odds were against him. He protected what mattered to him at the cost of his own life. He suffered through a lot--a lot he never talked about--but he fought on. He kept on going, even when he couldn't see the light at the end, and that's exactly what I think you've been doing."

"Is that enough?"

"If you remember anything about me at all, it should be."

I pausde, trying to find something that wasn't from a history text book. Something remembered, not leaned. "I remember you were a stubborn, scrappy little punk who picked fights ten sizes out of your weight class."

"Then yeah," the man--Steve--the name fits suddenly, not like it was forgotten, because he's been hearing about nothing but Steve Rogers for weeks--but like everything else suddenly fit into the name--as he ducked his head with that half-smile again and with a little pink in his cheeks, "yeah, I think it's going to be enough."

I looked back at the image of Bucky Barnes, fallen hero, and think that maybe someday I can look in the mirror and the "me" looking back will fit into Bucky as well as Steve fits into himself. Maybe. But for now, Steve is right. It's okay just to be. At least one song is playing clearly through the static, and it's an old one and a long one. One that we shared for almost our entire lives. One that was paused when we were apart but one that never stopped existing. And just listening to that overpower the static, even if it was just a melody missing a harmony, it was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Got kind of experimental in style here. Wanted to avoid using "I" pronouns until the very end when Bucky decides to own himself again. It went ok until I had to narrate, then it got rough. Let me know if the passive worked or if it was just confusing. Critique always encouraged.


End file.
